


Simple Pleasures

by goseaward



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: M/M, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:00:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goseaward/pseuds/goseaward
Summary: Harry has ideas. Julian is willing.
Relationships: Julius Norreys/Harry Vane
Comments: 10
Kudos: 40
Collections: Rare Male Slash Exchange 2020





	Simple Pleasures

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dissembler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dissembler/gifts).



> Thanks for Vae to the very quick and excellent beta! All remaining errors are my own.

Harry looks like an angel in the morning light, his hair a dark chestnut tumble of curls across the pillow, well-shaped body tipped in gold where the sunlight hits him and warms his skin. Julius has been awake for an hour, but he hasn't left the bed except to clean his teeth. He's divided his time between idly skimming yet another strange book Dominic has given him and watching Harry sleep.

Harry sniffs and moves his arm, a sure sign that he is finding his way to wakefulness. Julius sets the book aside and turns to give Harry his full attention.

As always, it is rewarded. Harry stretches, letting Julius observe the long clean lines of him, and blinks his eyes open with a heart-stopping smile when he sees Julius beside him.

"Good morning," Julius says rather loudly and cheerfully. Harry is not a morning person, and while Julius adores every part of him from the curl of his hair to his particularly well-shaped toes, he's not above being a pain in the arse when Harry sleeps in, simply for the amusement value.

Harry, of course, simply leans over and presses a sweet kiss to Julius's elbow. And then reaches down and gropes him quite comprehensively. "Oh," he says, sounding disappointed at finding Julius nearly soft.

"I've been awake for an hour, dear boy," Julius says. "I'm sure with some application you'll find a suitable welcome."

Harry looks up at him beseechingly. "I'm much too sleepy for that," he says, and Julius recognises the glint in his eye.

With a sigh, Julius slides down into the bedclothes and rolls on top of Harry. Harry makes a heartbreakingly sweet sound at that, a mix of surprise and satisfied pleasure at Julius's weight. Julius kisses his mouth, surprised as always at the things he doesn't mind when it's Harry: morning breath, cheeky hands, Julius's own arousal, growing as Harry slips a thigh between his legs and presses up just hard enough. Animal things, bodily things, that all add up to the pleasure of Harry in his bed, and not any of the uncomfortable places in Julius's mind where they used to go. Before long, Julius has a stand to match Harry's own rampant prick, and Harry has given up the kisses to press his mouth to Julius's shoulder, apparently feeling that this requires less conscious thought.

"What would you like?" Julius murmurs in his ear.

Harry makes a soft sound and looks at Julius. His eyes are half-glazed, and Julius would be much more flattered if he didn't think that most of it was Harry's desire to go back to sleep. "Between my thighs?" he says finally.

Of course he would: of all their usual activities, it requires the least work on his part, except perhaps when they just rub together until their spend mixes between them. Most of the time, Julius feels a little slow compared to Harry, less ready to try new things, new experiences. But Harry is never at his best in the mornings. Julius smiles in fondness as he grabs the bottle of oil from the bedside table and applies it to the both of them.

Harry squeezes his slick thighs together and smiles back up at Julius.

When Julius slides his prick in, it both does and does not feel like being back at Eton. He hadn't done it often there, but he hadn't done it all between leaving school and meeting Harry, so it has an adolescent tinge foreign to most of their sexual pursuits. But he'd never had anyone like Harry at Eton: no one so beautiful, and more importantly no one so much Julius's match, finding easy all the things Julius finds difficult, and looking for Julius's guidance in all the places Julius shines. And, of course, no one at Eton had loved Julius the way Harry does. Nobody in his whole life has done that before.

A good thing, or Julius might be tempted to do something cruel, like make a loud noise just to watch him jump: Harry is somehow sliding back towards sleep even as he lazily works his own ramrod in the space between their bodies. He's doing it far slower than Julius thinks ought to be able to get him off. Well. It's Harry's pleasure, he may take it how he likes. Julius focuses on the warmth around his own prick, the catch of Harry's hair under the smooth glide of the oil, Harry's lustful half-awake face watching Julius.

Julius reaches up and rubs a thumb under Harry's cheekbone, the softness where his blush comes when he's embarrassed. It embarrasses him now, colour blooming on both sides of his face. "Lovely boy," Julius says softly. Harry whimpers and his hand moves faster. Julius matches him, chasing his own pleasure, ready to let it roll over him, as undignified and carnal and purely joyful as it always is with Harry.

Harry's hand stops moving a moment before his spend spills out onto his belly. He groans deep in his throat, throwing his head back onto the pillow and panting for air. Julius stares at him as he finds his own completion, such carefree abandon, such physical perfection, flushed and lax with pleasure because of Julius, and feels, once again, his life at once both alien to him and utterly perfect.

He folds himself down gently onto Harry's chest—he has enough presence of mind for that, at least—and lets his own racing heart slow, safe and warm in bed with his lover. Harry's breathing evens beneath him, slow and steady and then...suspiciously slow and steady. Julius pushes himself up to look at Harry's face. It's a picture as always, the familiar beloved structure. But his long beautiful eyelashes are resting on his cheek, and Julius knows he's fallen right back to sleep. Of course. He sighs and gets up to fetch a cloth.

* * *

"I do not like to question your taste, Mr Cheney," Julius begins.

The tailor nods, and smoothly removes the coat from Harry's shoulders. "It is becoming the fashion with some of the younger set," he says, "and I thought perhaps on young Mr Vane, here, it might suit. It emphasises the breadth of the shoulders."

"I think not."

Mr Cheney nods again and disappears without another word whilst his assistant helps Harry back into the coat he came in with—without that horrible little puff at the top of the arm near the shoulder. He shudders to think of the probable situation five years in the future, in which all the bright-eyed young men will have huge exaggerated growths springing from their sleeves. But especially his Harry, with his strong and sturdy arms, shown off to good advantage by a closer fit. It will be a tragedy, should it come to pass.

Julius is, he is aware, rather biased on the subject.

He is also glad for his reputation, and the general knowledge of his being a mentor to Harry as well as a friend, because nobody in the shop questioned him just now when he made a decision on Harry's behalf. Harry didn't object either, of course, and there's a slight tilt to his lips that tells Julius the lack of an objection was a conscious choice: to let Julius once again take on his nearly-abandoned role of tutor with a bright pupil. "Come, Harry," Julius says, "I want to see the new herringbone wool Mr Cheney mentioned."

Harry falls into step beside him as they move to a more public area of the tailor's establishment. "I'm curious. What is your ideal ensemble for me?" Julius looks at him and he grins. "You must have some idea. Since you are so decisive about my clothes."

He is, at that. It feels almost dangerous, even though he'd do the same to—say—Ash, if Ash were to ask for his sartorial advice (a very good idea) and if Francis were to let Julius take on the role (Francis would skin Julius alive). Knowing himself, he would likely be even worse with Ash's friend Freddie, a ladies' man if London had ever seen one, with the fashion sense of a teapot.

"Blue, to bring out your eyes," he says at once. The eyes in question smile at him. "Maybe a grey for the pantaloons—am I dressing you for afternoon or evening?"

"Afternoon," Harry says at once, and then, after a quick glance around, "The only thing I want you doing in the evenings is _um_ dressing me."

Helplessly, Julius laughs. "Noted, dear boy. Dark blue coat, pale blue waistcoat with silver embroidery, light grey pantaloons. Yes. Fashionable, setting you off to perfection. We would, of course, have to carefully consider the buttons."

Harry smiles. He has always liked Julius's domineering streak, and Julius is pleased that he continues to. "All right. Shall we look at material for a pale blue waistcoat, then? We must assemble this outfit of yours, so you can show me off to the ton."

Julius likes the idea rather more than he cares to admit. "Lead on."

* * *

* * *

"Have you any engagements tomorrow?" Harry asks. Assuming Julius would join him, he picked the settle tonight, but instead he is watching Julius answer correspondence across the room. Harry is bored, but does not wish to admit it: he ought to be more than satisfied with a book, as Julius and Silas so often are. Dominic as well. But Harry's ability to have his attention held by a book suffers a noticeable decline when he's alone in a room with Julius.

"No. Lady Beaufort's dinner party the night after, of course."

"I as well," Harry says. "And afternoon tea with Lady Hertford the day after."

"As do I."

Harry stares at Julius's back. From this angle he appears to be wearing a well-cut but sombre blue coat with gray pantaloons. But Harry knows he's wearing the silver waistcoat that he wore the first time they met. It's been on his mind all evening. "I suppose you are stuck with me, then," Harry says.

"Indeed, we cannot escape each other," Julius says, with a smile over his shoulder all for Harry's benefit. "Blast!" He jerks back around to the writing desk and starts shaking his hand.

"Julius?" Harry sits up, and when Julius doesn't respond immediately, walks over to join him. "Are you all right?"

Julius is hissing quietly to himself as he peels a sizable drip of sealing wax off the flesh of his hand just below the knuckle of his index finger. Harry stares at the blue wax against his pale skin, the red mark underneath as the wax comes away.

"Oh, Julius," Harry says. "I'm sorry I distracted you."

"Don't worry, dear boy, this is all my own carelessness." Julius sighs and shakes his hand some more.

Impulsively, Harry reaches down and grabs his hand. He pulls it to his mouth and kisses the spot slowly. "Poor Julius," he murmurs. "Can I make it up to you?"

Julius looks up at his face and his expression changes: haughtier and more indulgent, all at once. "You may try," he says.

Harry smiles and presses his tongue to the ball of Julius's thumb. "What would you like?"

"This is your apology," Julius points out. "One you not need make, but as you wish to make the effort...perhaps you ought also to divine my will."

Harry considers. He draws Julius's thumb into his mouth whole, and sucks it gently, ending with a scrape of teeth as he pulls off. He licks over the red mark from the wax again, hearing Julius's sharp intake of breath. Then he slowly slides his own coat off his shoulders. It's one of a more conservative cut, left over from the parts of his wardrobe intended to please an unpleasable grandfather, and suitable only for wearing on their evenings in; but the looser cut makes it possible to remove it on his own, for which he's now grateful. He drapes it over the back of a nearby armchair. He watches Julius's face as Julius watches his fingers: loosening and removing the cravat and adding it to the pile; reaching for the buttons of his waistcoat. By the time he has stripped to shirt and pantaloons, Julius's gaze is fixed firmly on Harry's groin, where his cock is hardening from the taste of Julius's skin and the weight of Julius's attention.

Julius moves to rise and Harry pushes him back with a hand on his shoulder. "No," he says, emphasising the gesture. "I think you ought to stay like that." Julius tilts his head to the side, curious but apparently willing, and Harry drops to his knees between Julius's feet.

When Harry loosens the fall of Julius's pantaloons, Julius doesn't do more than draw in a breath. He is playing ice prince, which Harry loves beyond all measure, and Julius knows. Harry reaches through cloth and pulls out Julius's prick, plumped up but not yet hard. He does not moan when Harry draws it into his mouth. Instead, he spreads his thighs just the slightest amount, tipping his hips forward, making it easier for Harry to crowd in close and lavish attention on him. Harry braces himself on Julius's thighs and shudders at the feel of taut muscle under the fine wool of his pantaloons.

It feels like a service, on his knees with Julius in front of him, at his desk, dressed every inch a gentleman. Harry loves it. He loves the sensation of Julius in his mouth, the taste of him, the weight; the way Julius touches his face like he can't help it, pushing Harry's hair back and tracing the edge of his ear, feeling him as he swallows around Julius's growing stand.

"Take your shirt off," Julius says abruptly. Harry lets Julius slip from his mouth and watches the jerk of his shoulders as cool air hits the wetness Harry left on his skin. He pushes back, away from Julius, and—instead of his shirt—starts with his boots.

Julius sighs audibly, and Harry grins at him. One boot and then the other, the waist of his pantaloons loosened and then his lower half bared all at once. He considers leaving the clothing where it fell, but Julius has trained him too well, and he gets up to place them neatly on the chair with his coat. He can feel Julius's eyes on him as he lifts the shirt up and over his head. He's hard enough to match Julius, nipples peaking, and he feels like he's stalking back to Julius more than walking.

When he pauses, teasing, just far enough away that they cannot touch each other, Julius wraps his hand around his prick and pushes it down, so it points towards Harry.

Harry drops to his knees and looks up at Julius's face as he takes him back in. Julius's hands are on his shoulders, now, instead of his face, fine and precise against his skin. Being naked between Julius's clothed legs is somehow both more urgent and more comforting: he can have only one purpose, to please Julius. Julius can do what he likes, he is nearly ready to stride out into the hall should the need arise, and Harry can focus on only him. He'd normally be lavishing attention on Julius's bollocks by now, or reaching behind to rub softly at the entrance to his body; the earthiness of either always seems to drive Julius wild. But his body is still trapped within layers of exquisite cloth, except for his prick, jutting rudely forward, obscene and evocative between his thighs. Everywhere else Julius is polished beauty, hardly seeming real, delicate embroidery and flawless tailoring, and then this one piece of undeniable blood-filled humanity, desperate and sensitive. Harry swallows, and swallows again when Julius moans above him.

He could touch his own prick, spread the beads of moisture he feels around the head, give himself some relief. He doesn't. He, somehow, doesn't even want to. He just wants to be here, doing this to Julius, while Julius touches him like he's precious and starts to press his cock down Harry's throat, gently, seeking his own pleasure. It isn't long at all before the moans are dripping freely from Julius's lips, his grip growing firmer on Harry's body.

Harry slides his hands further up Julius's thighs, so his fingers can wrap around to the taut muscle of his arse, his thumbs driving into the thin flesh above his hipbones. The taste of Julius grows sharper, and Harry moves his mouth faster until, finally, Julius comes with a low groan, spilling himself down Harry's throat, as inconsiderate and thrusting at the peak of his pleasure as he has been restrained and gentle until now. Harry takes it, barely. But then, of the many things he loves about Julius, this is one of his favourites: the way pleasure undoes him, as if it is a surprise.

Harry holds him in his mouth long enough that Julius relaxes, then lets him go and falls back to finally, finally get a hand on himself. Julius makes a low, aroused noise when he notices. He brings his feet forward, bracketing Harry's bare legs with his own, those beautiful grey wool pantaloons, and Harry moans and spends all over his belly, then flops back onto the floor.

After a few minutes of silence, in which Harry's breathing returns to normal and he stops feeling quite so much like he's been hit over the head with lust, Julius says, "I should injure myself more often."

"And we didn't even ruin your clothes," Harry says. He feels sleepy and sated. Perhaps he will go to bed so he can wake early and fuck Julius in the morning light—that had been good, last time. He levers himself up to a sitting position.

Julius lifts an eyebrow. "Were they in danger?"

"There was rather a lot of spend flying around," Harry says, startling a laugh out of Julius.

"I appreciate your discretion, dear boy," Julius says, "and I am sure my valet appreciates it twice over."

"Oh, God."

"Indeed," Julius says. He's tucked himself away. Harry can't help but feel a little disappointed. He loves Julius lost in pleasure, surprised and freed by it, and the only flaw in Harry's excellent plan tonight is that it is far too easy for Julius to make himself presentable again if he's already dressed.

Harry hauls himself up to standing. "I'm for bed. Would you like to join me?"

"In a few minutes, dear heart," Julius says. "Good night."

"Good night." He knows that even if Julius joins him later, he will sleep if Harry's there. One of the everyday miracles of his life.

* * *

"Is everything all right?" Dominic asks as soon as the door closes behind them.

It's a reasonable question. Harry rarely asks for private conference, and he's never been in a room alone with Dominic before. "Yes, nothing to worry about," Harry says, trying for a confident charm he hardly feels: Dominic intimidates him.

Dominic is still frowning. "Are you sure? You look pale."

"Yes, very. Please have a seat." Harry gestures to the chairs by the fire, and Dominic takes one, watching curiously as Harry takes another, facing him. "I have a question about some personal matters that I thought you would be best prepared to answer."

"Personal matters?"

"Yes." He hears Julius's voice in the back of his head, telling him to be confident. "Bedroom matters, in fact."

Dominic's dark eyebrows fly up his forehead. "Julius is not—"

"Not generally, no," Harry says, not feeling guilty in the slightest for the interruption. "But we—that is, I was distracting him, and he dripped some sealing wax on his arm and I think that it was not altogether awful."

"Sealing wax," Dominic says, eyebrows still soaring.

"Yes," Harry says.

"And this is something you wish to do—"

"Deliberately."

"I see." Dominic doesn't sound like he's finished speaking, but he watches Harry for a moment, assessing. "Could you not speak to Silas about this?" he asks, a little plaintively.

"I did. He said to ask you."

"Ah. I may have words with him later about that." About not warning him, Harry guesses. Dominic considers Harry. "Are you sure this is something Julius also wants?"

"No," Harry admits. "But in case it is, I wanted to see if you knew if it was safe. If you had any advice for how I might go about it. And then if you thought it wouldn't injure him, I might raise the possibility, without worrying I would raise his hopes only to have them go unsatisfied."

Dominic makes an acknowledging noise and rubs his mouth. "That is thoughtful," he says after a moment. "All right. I have not done that myself, but I have heard of such acts. I can put you in touch with a gentleman I know who enjoys the practice."

"No," Harry says decidedly. "No, Dominic, I can hardly speak of this to you, I can't imagine talking to a stranger about it. Or about Julius."

"I understand. All right." Dominic resettles himself in the chair, and Harry realises suddenly that Dominic is also uncomfortable. For all his experience, perhaps Dominic is as unused to speaking about such matters outside the bedroom as Harry is—at least in detail. "First, yes. Sealing wax should work. You should test it on your own skin first to make sure it's not too hot. Don't use candles directly, the wax from those will burn."

Harry nods.

"You must watch out for Julius," Dom says, his face very serious. "He may not be able to tell you what's wrong, if something is. This is a lot of responsibility, Harry, do you understand?"

"I do," Harry says. "I would do anything to keep him from being hurt."

"Except not pour hot wax onto him?" Dominic asks dryly.

"Er, well." Harry shrugs. "Would this be easier with drinks?"

"God, yes."

Harry laughs and gets up to pour them both a glass from the bottle of port on the sideboard. Dominic takes a long drink when Harry hands him the glass. "Thank you, by the way," Harry says as he settles back into his chair. "I appreciate that you are willing to teach me about this."

Dominic sighs a little and smiles. "I suppose this is what I deserve for my sins." He sounds less—Harry doesn't know. Less ashamed, maybe, than Harry thought he might, even knowing that Dominic is open about this, that everyone who matters knows what he likes from Silas.

"So—sealing wax only, make sure it is not too hot, and pay attention to Julius," Harry says, after a long drink of his own.

"Perhaps some cool water to take the sting away, if it proves too much."

Harry nods. "Water. All right."

"And talk to him," Dominic says with emphasis. "Before you do anything. Don't surprise him."

"Of course."

"And never, ever tell anyone we had this conversation."

Harry says fervently, "Indeed."

* * *

After they return from eating their evening meal at Alcide's, they both go back to their separate rooms and let their valets do their work. Julius is insistent that they can't undress each other _every_ night, or it would look too suspicious. Once a decent interval has passed, Harry steals across the hallway in nothing but a nightshirt. Inside, Julius is sitting on the settle. Harry doesn't bother with a book tonight: he's brimming with plans. Instead he sits directly in Julius's lap. Julius's arms come around him immediately, and the look on his face...no look Julius wears can be called gentle, but the edges are blunted, all for Harry.

Harry kisses him first: that is important above all other things. Some days he thinks all the minutes he isn't kissing Julius are a waste. Especially knowing that he hadn't liked it before Harry, that Harry helped him understand what it meant. Now Julius gives it all his attention. Harry waits until he can feel Julius's shoulders loosening under his hands, then scrapes his teeth across Julius's lower lip and pulls back. "I want to try something," he says, "but only if you want to, as well."

"Yes, dear boy?"

"The other night. When you spilled the wax on your hand."

Julius frowns at him. "Yes?"

"It was—" Julius always tells him not to stutter or hesitate, and he hopes Julius will forgive him, in this case. "I liked the way it looked on you," he says, finally. "Decorated. Like the earring, I suppose." He reaches up and touches Julius's ear lightly.

"You want to seal me like a letter?" Julius says, amused. "Dare I ask where you intend to send me?"

Harry laughs. "I'm keeping you for myself, as you well know. No, I simply thought I could drip some wax on you." He leans in and tongues the earring instead, and then whispers into Julius's ear, "Your skin flushed so red where it touched you. And I had you at such a stand that night."

Julius tilts his head, giving Harry more room to work on the shell of his ear. "Where do you propose to adorn me?"

"Your chest," Harry says immediately. No question. Shades of blue on the top edge of his pectoral muscles, near his beautiful, beloved face.

Julius breathes in. "All right."

Pulling back to look at him, Harry says, "You will?" He hadn't been sure Julius would agree, but if he will—

"I will let you _try_ ," Julius says, with emphasis.

Harry occupies himself with Julius's mouth for a time. He's positioned to grind forward against Julius's growing stand, and Julius's hands on his arse encourage him. His mouth is a distraction of its own, kisses harsh and rough then gentling then deepening again. Harry moves his mouth down to tongue at the tender skin of his neck, hidden from him all evening by Julius's cravat. Julius sighs into his hair and rubs his back, his arse, his shoulders, then brings his hand up and steers Harry back to his mouth. Harry wraps his arms round Julius's neck and brings them together breastbone to groin, pressed tight, stands hard against each other; he moans into the kiss.

"Bedroom," Julius says. "At least my waistcoat is not in danger this time."

Harry laughs and rises. He takes the sealing wax and a candle with him, as well as a glass tumbler, which he fills from the clean water in the pitcher as soon as they enter the bedroom.

They fall on the bed, kissing again, Harry's hands in Julius's hair. Harry's on top, as he is more often than not, regardless of their activities: Julius may squirm, but he seems to like Harry's weight. Harry moves down to Julius's collarbones, worrying them lightly with his teeth in between kisses.

"Are you thinking about the wax?" Julius says.

Harry nods and licks away the faint impression of his bite.

Julius shifts his hips, pressing his ramrod to Harry's. "Do it," he says.

Harry meets his eyes. Julius doesn't look as excited as Harry had hoped, but he seems willing, even encouraging. Perhaps he just needs to experience it, to understand what Harry had understood, several evenings ago. He fetches the candle and the sealing wax closer and turns the stick slowly in the candle flame, building up a blob of melted wax until he has enough to drip off. Julius's eyes are watching him, dark in the faint light, and they widen in surprise when Harry brings the wax no further than his own forearm and lets it fall there.

He swears and bucks where he's seated across Julius's thighs. Hell's tits, that _hurts_. Well. Obviously. He shakes his arm until the searing heat subsides and the wax feels firmer, and then peels it off and lets it fall onto the wide base of the candlestick.

Rubbing Harry's thighs soothingly, Julius says dryly, "I thought the idea was to put the wax on _me_?"

"I wanted to check the temperature." Harry shakes his arm again; the mark is bright red. "You will truly let me do this?"

"I can doubt you if you'd prefer."

Harry bites his lip, sees the flash of desire in Julius's eyes. "No." He leans over again, melting the wax in the candle flame, until it is shiny and soft at the end. He holds the stick high over Julius, hoping the long drop will help it cool, and spills a moderately-sized drip of wax a hand's breadth below Julius's collarbone.

Julius sucks in a breath and tenses under Harry. The appearance is mesmerising: a rounded blue brand on his skin, looking like it grew there, with the skin red around it. Harry bends down and licks carefully close to the edge without touching. He can hear Julius breathing, louder than normal. Then Julius presses his shoulders up just slightly to get closer to Harry's mouth. Harry reaches down between them, finding Julius's stand ready and springing into his fingers, and Julius moans when he strokes it. Harry feels clumsy, not used to using his left hand for this, but he feels his right ought to be in control of the wax.

"Beautiful," Harry says, kissing Julius's lips before leaning over to the candle again.

Julius reaches up, feeling the wax on his skin. He drops his hand to Harry's thigh again, leaving the broad open canvas of his chest for Harry to paint on.

The second drip produces even more of a reaction: a low, choked-off noise, somewhere between a moan and a complaint. Harry gets his tongue on Julius's skin even faster this time, enough that he can feel the warmth from the wax even at a distance. He licks around both pools and then down to tease Julius's nipples, not stopping until Julius's hips start to twitch, thrusting his rigid stand into Harry's palm. He could wish Julius spoke more, so Harry would have a better idea how he was feeling, but he wouldn't be Harry's Julius if he did.

"All right, love?" Harry says, reaching for the candle again. Julius watches the candle's flame this time, tense between Harry's thighs, and still so hard. He doesn't answer right away, so Harry sets the sealing wax against the candlestick and bends down to kiss Julius, until he seems less hazy, more actively answering the thrust of Harry's tongue. "All right?" Harry asks again.

"Keep going," Julius says, in an unusually gravelly voice.

Harry looks him in the eye, but if he sees hesitation there he doesn't see outright rejection. He will listen to Julius, then. He melts the wax a third time, and a third time lets it drip, the mirror image of the first drop under his left collarbone.

Julius tenses harder, this time, than he has before, and Harry firms in the idea in his mind: That was the last one, at least for tonight. He again applies his mouth to the reddened skin, daring to scrape his teeth but not too near the wax, feeling Julius twitch in his hand as he does. He sits back up and tightens his grip on Julius's cock, stroking harder, faster. "Shall I tell you how you look?" he says.

Nodding, Julius tosses his head slightly, like a bird settling its feathers.

"Like you have three jewels springing straight from your skin. Right where I put them on you. Mine, my marks. So everyone will know you belong to me." His hand is moving more smoothly now, slicked by the fluid leaking from the swollen head of Julius's prick. "Beautiful. All mine. Doing these difficult things for me." Julius outright moans when he says that, and Harry grins, watching his closed eyes, his flushed cheeks, the three drips of brilliant blue on his flawless chest. The skin around them is still red. "Do they hurt?"

Julius nods. He opens his eyes, meeting Harry's for a moment with a faint smile, then closes them again and pushes his stand through Harry's grip.

"Thank you for doing this for me," Harry says. "Here, I'll help." He leans over and douses a handkerchief in the tumbler of water he'd placed on the table, then squeezes cool water out over marks.

The noise that Julius makes is almost inhuman, a low howl, and he jerks in surprise. Harry is startled at first, but he realises: Julius must have become accustomed to the burning heat of the wax, and the water must seem very cold in comparison. Anyone would be confused by such conflicting sensations. But the jerk turns into a hard thrust, and again, and it isn't a surprise moments later when Julius nearly bucks Harry off, spending in hard, wrenching spasms into Harry's hand.

Harry's kissing him as he finishes, nothing artful, simply tasting Julius as he slowly relaxes. He knows Julius has come back to himself when his hand comes up, guiding the kiss, turning it almost sweet. Taking the lead.

Then his other hand finds Harry's stand, so stiff it's nearly painful where it's trapped between their bodies. He pulls back and looks Harry in the eye. "My mouth, will you fuck my mouth?"

Harry's own stand pulses at the vulgar language. Julius isn't moving, so Harry crawls up the bed, kneeling beside Julius's shoulders, gripping the headboard as he lets Julius roll up to one arm and take him in his mouth. Julius urges his hips forward with his hand and Harry lets himself be pulled. The sight of him like this is always almost as good as the sensation: gilt hair shining like precious metal, the fine aristocratic features, slightly distorted where his mouth stretches around the rampant red flesh of Harry's prick.

At the last moment, Harry pulls out. Julius understands him without words, leaning back so Harry's spend can decorate the blue marks Harry left on him. They look even better wreathed in white, he thinks, before his legs give out and he falls to the bed.

Some time later, Julius tries to rise—probably wanting to clean himself up—and Harry tugs him back to the bed: clearly Harry should be the one doing the work this evening. He gets up himself and wipes them both off with a cloth; he lets Julius peel the wax from his own skin. Harry puts his mouth on the blue-tinged red marks left behind, and Julius sighs and wraps an arm around his shoulders.

"Thank you," Harry says.

"It was, obviously, my pleasure," Julius says, and presses a kiss to the crown of Harry's head.

* * *

* * *

"Do you know what I'm thinking of?" Harry says.

Julius tilts his head at him. "No." Harry is typically easy to read, his sunny personality unconcerned with more than the present moment. His smirk now says he's thinking of something they have done in private, but Julius cannot imagine what particular event he is thinking of, nor what in this jewellery shop would have reminded him of it.

"That pin," Harry says.

Julius looks at the pin. It's a woman's piece, a cameo, that he was considering buying for his mother for her birthday—not that he could tell Harry this, since Harry always expressed all the anger at Julius's parents that Julius could not bring himself to feel. The piece is a simple image of a young lady in white on a blue field. "Yes?"

"Does the colour remind you of anything?"

Frowning, Julius examines the piece. It's a simple blue, of a colour he prefers; obviously it looks excellent on both himself and on Harry, so he favors it. In fact—

"Sealing wax," Harry says.

"Ah, yes," Julius says. He looks down. "I suppose this would be rather a simpler way to adorn myself with that colour."

Harry laughs. "Less exciting, however."

Julius smiles a little.

Harry's brow creases. "Julius? Is something wrong?"

Damn the boy, he's too perceptive when it comes to Julius. "The thought is distracting, dear boy," he says lightly.

"Distracting?" Harry's still frowning, damn his perceptiveness. "I was hoping for rather better than that."

Julius glances at the shop assistant—he is concentrating on another customer across the room, so while they may not speak freely, they are also not closely observed. "I enjoyed myself," he starts, and then changes what he was going to say. "And you enjoyed it as well, did you not?"

Harry's face softens; the love is so clear on his face that Julius can hardly stand to look at him, and certainly can't stand to look away. "Dear Julius," he says softly. "You don't have to do anything to please me. I only thought it might please you."

"It did," Julius says. As Harry well knows, having felt how hard his crisis took him.

Harry licks his lips and nods. "But it was not easy for you," he says. Not a guess: of the two of them, Julius is the expert in most things, and yet Harry, somehow, has become the expert on Julius himself.

"No. I would do it again, but perhaps not...immediately."

"Right." Harry smiles to himself, a little ruefully. "You know, when I first met you, I wanted so badly—well, you know what I wanted." His eyes cut to the side, checking their audience again. Thank God it's one of young Freddie's set, who could take ten minutes to decide between the chicken and the rat poison for supper, and is likely to tie up the staff for another half an hour at least. "But I had no idea how gentlemen went about such things. Do you know how happy I am that you will have anything at all to do with me?"

Julius makes a protesting noise, quietly.

"But we have found our way between us, have we not?"

Slowly, Julius nods.

Harry's expression fades into a faint smile. "Whenever you are ready to do that again, I am at your disposal. But Julius—you may always tell me no. I want you to. I mean it. If you want to do nothing more than that morning last week, or—or not even that, you _must_ let me know." He steps half a step closer, as close as they can be in public without giving anything away. "You're what I want, love. Wherever and however you want me."

Julius has been tense, he realises, when he can feel his shoulders relax. Something changes in Harry's expression—he noticed, too. "You don't mind waiting for me?" It feels like the words ought to be painful to say, to think: that he is not enough, that he can't give Harry what he wants. But he trusts Harry, as miraculous as that is. He didn't know he needed to ask the question, but now that he has, he is not afraid of the answer, not truly.

"It is the pleasure of my life," Harry says, with the weight of a promise.

"As it should be," Julius says, with something like his old acidity back in his voice, familiar and comforting.

Harry laughs outright and links his arm through Julius's. "Come along," he says. "Let's walk home. Or would you rather wait on that gentleman, there, and buy the pin?"

"Or perhaps a new earring for you. I want only the best for you, dear boy," Julius says, and Harry's mouth curves into a smile as he says, "Yes, you are."

**Author's Note:**

> Hi dissembler--thanks so much for this super fun prompt! I loved getting to write about these two just...hanging out, really. And thanks to the mods of the exchange for letting me be a little late, and running a fest with such interesting fandoms to pick from.


End file.
